Hi John,I read this in another site and thought you might enjoy the read. It's long but entrancing just the same. Amazing the depth of a pilots admiration for high tech and human ingenuity.

Quote:Originally Posted by goforchrome I don't doubt the stories about strange, glowing lights....

Long story follows written by Air Force pilot:SR-71 Blackbird

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya . My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a 'line of death', a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by Maj Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5 - to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back', Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight, following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane. Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in the form of molded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than menacing. Glue,oozing from the seams, discolored the black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the world's fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation's most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model had assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to 1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers' U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed.

In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walter, my partner for the next four years He would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.

We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California , Kadena Airbase in Okinawa, and RAF Mildenhall in England . On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.

One day, high above Arizona , we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. 'Ninety knots,' ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. 'One-twenty on the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was 'Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,' ATC responded. The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter's mike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, 'Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied out of our revetments for takeoff, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71 You could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.

One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display with no sound. I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention back inside. To my surprise, with the cockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater power. For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.

The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71.?The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from enemy fire.

On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum , sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records.

The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam , Red China, North Korea , the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements. It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.

I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time, if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that's what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to prepare herself.

For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We've become so used to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare. Entering the target area, in response to the jet's new-found vitality, Walt says, 'That's amazing' and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther forward, I think to myself that there is much they don't teach in engineering school.

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind. The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch control, my eyes glued to the gauges.

Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of performance and she wasn't about to let an errant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land. I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is 'quiet' as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate.

The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy's backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below. We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft.

I push the speed up at Walt's request. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform. Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the warm temps we've encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it really doesn't surprise me. Mach 3.31 and Walt is quiet for the moment.

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel on the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft's pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss watchmakers, surgeons, and 'dinosaurs' (old-time pilots who not only fly an airplane but 'feel it'), I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch location, a position which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a degree and knows, I'll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull throttles back.

Walt's voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity of Walter's voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more valid threat than the others. Within seconds he tells me to 'push it up' and I firmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few seconds, I will let the jet go as fast as she wants. A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I'm wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our course.

With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmed course. To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I'll be able to visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander through one's mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North Vietnam They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the exploding missile.

I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below. I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside. Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go, until we can start our turn Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues to increase. The ride is incredibly smooth.

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now - more so than normal - and she seems to know it. The cooler outside temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With spikes and doors as tight as they can get, we are racing against the time it could take a missile to reach our altitude.

It is a race this jet will not let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet now - except faster. We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli , our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonic boom. In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean. I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we're continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner.

The TDI now shows us Mach numbers, not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel is now quiet, and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull the throttles to the min 'burner range and the jet still doesn't want to slow down. Normally the Mach would be affected immediately, when making such a large throttle movement But for just a few moments old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach, she seemed to love and like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when we were well out of danger.

Hi John,I read this in another site and thought you might enjoy the read. It's long but entrancing just the same. Amazing the depth of a pilots admiration for high tech and human ingenuity.

Quote:Originally Posted by goforchrome I don't doubt the stories about strange, glowing lights....

Long story follows written by Air Force pilot:SR-71 Blackbird

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya . My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a 'line of death', a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by Maj Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5 - to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back', Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight, following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane. Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in the form of molded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than menacing. Glue,oozing from the seams, discolored the black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the world's fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation's most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model had assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to 1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers' U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed.

In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walter, my partner for the next four years He would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.

We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California , Kadena Airbase in Okinawa, and RAF Mildenhall in England . On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.

One day, high above Arizona , we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. 'Ninety knots,' ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. 'One-twenty on the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was 'Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,' ATC responded. The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter's mike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, 'Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied out of our revetments for takeoff, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71 You could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.

One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display with no sound. I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention back inside. To my surprise, with the cockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater power. For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.

The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71.?The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from enemy fire.

On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum , sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records.

The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam , Red China, North Korea , the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements. It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.

I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time, if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that's what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to prepare herself.

For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We've become so used to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare. Entering the target area, in response to the jet's new-found vitality, Walt says, 'That's amazing' and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther forward, I think to myself that there is much they don't teach in engineering school.

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind. The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch control, my eyes glued to the gauges.

Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of performance and she wasn't about to let an errant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land. I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is 'quiet' as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate.

The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy's backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below. We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft.

I push the speed up at Walt's request. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform. Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the warm temps we've encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it really doesn't surprise me. Mach 3.31 and Walt is quiet for the moment.

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel on the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft's pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss watchmakers, surgeons, and 'dinosaurs' (old-time pilots who not only fly an airplane but 'feel it'), I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch location, a position which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a degree and knows, I'll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull throttles back.

Walt's voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity of Walter's voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more valid threat than the others. Within seconds he tells me to 'push it up' and I firmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few seconds, I will let the jet go as fast as she wants. A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I'm wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our course.

With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmed course. To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I'll be able to visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander through one's mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North Vietnam They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the exploding missile.

I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below. I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside. Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go, until we can start our turn Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues to increase. The ride is incredibly smooth.

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now - more so than normal - and she seems to know it. The cooler outside temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With spikes and doors as tight as they can get, we are racing against the time it could take a missile to reach our altitude.

It is a race this jet will not let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet now - except faster. We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli , our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonic boom. In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean. I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we're continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner.

The TDI now shows us Mach numbers, not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel is now quiet, and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull the throttles to the min 'burner range and the jet still doesn't want to slow down. Normally the Mach would be affected immediately, when making such a large throttle movement But for just a few moments old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach, she seemed to love and like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when we were well out of danger.

I loved that jet.

-- Roger Cram

Quoting: PhoenixAZ

Thanks. Very cool read.

Live your life with integrity; and without envy hate or greed. Express your love to your family every day.

Thats all you have to do in this life other than doing things you like to do.

There are many of them still on Mars and plenty of them here on earth but they live underground.

If you actually saw one, or think you saw one it is screen memory because a true encounter with a bigfoot would be similar to a true encounter with the alien in Alien.

Now, bigfoot is not the only horrible creature living here on earth. Most of them live underground but not all.

Best you consider living your life with integrity, and without envy, hate or greed in which case your possible encounter with these monsters will be slim to none.

Quoting: johnlear

Hi John,

Many thanks for your answers here. Tell me, why was bigfoot brought from Mars to Earth (sounds as if ET was doing some reverse terraforming in this regard...but for what purpose)?? Is there any link between bigfoot/sasquatch/yeti and homo sapien humans??

What other "horrible creatures" live here?? Are they alien in origin as well??

Peace

Dave - Toronto

Quoting: Anonymous Coward 10485944

I don't know why the Big foot was brought here. There are simularities between them and yetis and sasquatch. There is no link between them and humans.

I don't know too much about horrible creatures on earth except the one they were trying to eliminate in Viet Nam.

This creature was a flying or 'jumping' moth about 6 feet tall, could immobilize you and take over your body both mentally and physically. They were impervious to bullets of any calibre or grade. An attempt was made to get rid of them with napalm but since no carcasses or bodies were found they don't know whether or not it works.

It is unlikely you would ever encounter any of these creatures unless you were in a deep, dark jungle, far away from civilization.

Quoting: johnlear

I heard sleeper on the Veritas show and he said wars were always for other reasons than we think. Was this "moth creature" the real reason for the Vietnam conflict?

Can everyone please youtube " The Truth Exposed! Long Version"And watch the entire thing please?Then try and make a thread about ut and see how long it lasts on glp???

It explains everything and expose tue MSM has been recycling actors for literally everything.. Julian assange is also the Norway shooter .. 9/11 eyewitness live interviews ... Also at Occupy Movement and also at g20 !! Bloomberg and Strong Families

Research this Immediately and watch the entire vid .. This isVITAL

I have tried to post it 3 seperate times in mew threadsMagicallykeeps disappearing

Biggest Conpiracy Ever!!Invest the time and watch this Mr Lear ... This is blowing the lid of Everything!

"No one can stop truth -eventually it finds a way to light .. Through someones eyes ears lips actions or heart...it always escapes"

I respect you as a fellow truth-seeker, pilot and man of integrity, doing your very best to live life without envy, hate or greed.

Dr. Judy Wood's work aside, I understand your current belief is that the 911 planes were the products of video fakery or holograms. I can assure you this was not the case. While this will be a long post, the time invested in reading it may very-well might be worth your while in revising your stance on the planes.

Ten years ago, I exchanged emails with another truth-seeker, Carol Valentine, who had published an article entitled "Operation 911 - No Suicide Pilots" in October of 2001. Our exchange culminated in her publishing an addendum entitled "Flight Of The Bumble Planes" to the aforementioned article, which I agreed to her releasing through the news analysis site Public Action, Inc in early 2002.

I'll include a link to that, at the end, but I've updated a few things, for your consideration, here on GLP:

1) Few Passengers On The Four Flights: Many have remarked about the short passenger lists on the four 911 jets. You might get a low turnout for a 767 or 757 now and then, but four coast to-coast flights taking off from the East inside of a few minutes of each other, all with short passenger lists? Nuts. That's your first clue.

2) First Report of First WTC Crash: The second clue comes from the first New York eyewitness on NBC. She had no question about what she saw. You could hear it in her voice. If she was the state's witness, the defense team would have their heads between their knees before she stopped talking.

3) What did she say? She heard an airplane coming in low and looked up. She saw a small private jet, and watched it fly into the first WTC tower, the North tower. She was certain in her description -- most people know the difference between a big round-nose commercial jet and a smaller plane.

Later, some dodgy report came in from an anonymous source in the "United Airlines Command Center" that American Airlines had a hijacking, and they gradually padded the story out until the viewer felt like he was part of an unfolding revelation on the size and make of the plane. So the first eyewitness's story got shellacked.

3) Pentagon Crash: The first report on NBC said there had been an explosion near the Pentagon heliport. No mention of a plane.

If you were watching ABC, the first reports cited eyewitnesses who said a business jet had crashed into the Pentagon. Notice that this description is similar to the first report about the WTC. A small plane, not a big, round-nosed passenger jet.

Then ABC interviewed some media executive who said he "saw the whole thing" from his car on the freeway. It was an American Airlines passenger jet. Good luck the road didn't need his attention while he was gawking. And of course it was a big passenger jet scraping the light poles with it's belly as it came in low. And that story paved the way for the official truth.

4) No Boeing 757 Debris at Pentagon Crash Site: By now lots of people have realized there is something very wrong with the story of Flight 77's crash into the Pentagon. What's the problem? The wingspan of a 757 is about 125 feet, with about 35 feet between the two jet engines.

After the smoke died down, everyone could see the Pentagon but no one could see the plane. The Pentagon is made of masonry -- limestone -- not steel and glass. The aluminum wings of the plane should have been ripped off and left outside the building. We should have seen wing wreckage. But there was none.

See the following URLs at the website of the U.S. Army Military District of Washington, D.C., sent to me by researcher John DiNardo, <jadinardo@hotmail.com>. By the way, Mr. DiNardo suspects that inside explosives were used at the Pentagon on 9-11. Certainly the damaged section of the building had just been renovated; explosives would have been easy to install.

This photograph below, with caption, appeared on the US Army Military District of Washington site. It unwittingly demonstrates that there was no Boeing 757 wreckage. Think now: a hundred thousand pounds of seats, framework, skin plates, engine parts, flaps, wheels, luggage, interior panels, electronics, and this little out-of-context scrap of God-knows-what was shown by the Pentagon.

flying instructors who trained the "suicide" pilots of Flight 77 said they were hopeless. "It was like they had hardly even ever driven a car ..." The flight instructors called the two, "dumb and dumber," and told them to quit taking lessons.

Yet the Washington Post described the maneuvers of Flight 77 before it hit the Pentagon. The huge jet took a 270 degree hairpin turn to make its target. The Post said Flight 77 had to be flown by expert pilots.

Something is wrong here. Now "dumb and dumber" are expert pilots. That is your fifth clue.

6) Transponders Turned Off: As you point out, the "hijackers" turned off the transponders which transmit information showing the airline names, flight numbers, and altitude. But the FAA also uses conventional radar, so the "hijackers" must have known the planes were still visible. Why would the "hijackers" shut the transponders off, you asked? You are looking at your sixth clue.

7) Confusion On Radar Tracks: As you point out, some of these flights disappeared from the conventional radar scopes. [See above-cited URL.] That's your seventh clue.

8) Second WTC Tower Barely Hit: Have a look at the footage of the second WTC tower being hit. The plane almost missed the tower and just managed to hit the corner. Yet the first plane struck its target dead center. That's your eighth clue.

* A Boeing 767 was secured and painted up to look like a United Airlines jet. It had remote controls installed in it, courtesy of some NORAD types. Call that plane "Pseudo Flight 175" and leave it parked at a military airfield for the moment.

* The number of the passengers on each flight was kept artificially low that day. Easy to do. Just monkey with the airline computers and show the fights full so no more tickets are sold. Include some of your own operatives in each flight, maybe.

* After the planes are in the air, the transponders must be shut down. There are a few ways to do this, maybe, but the simplest is this: Have one of the NORAD insiders call the pilots and say: "This is the North American Aerospace Defense Command. There is a national emergency. We are under terrorist attack. Turn off your transponders. Maintain radio silence. Here is your new flight plan. You will land at [name] military air base."

* The pilots turn off the transponders. The FAA weenies lose the information which identifies the airline, the flight number, and the altitude of the planes. Of course the planes can still be seen on conventional radar, but the planes are just nameless blips now.

* What did the radar show of the planes' flight paths? In the spy movies, when the spy wants to lose a tail, he gets a double to lead the tail one way while the spy goes the other. If I were designing Operation 911, I'd do that: As each of the original jets is flying, another jet is sent to fly just above or below it, at the same latitude and longitude. The blips of the two planes merge on the radar scopes. Alternately, a plane is sent to cross the flight path of the original plane. Again, the blips merge, just like the little bees you're watching outside the hive. The original planes proceed to the military airfield and air traffic control is thoroughly confused, watching the wrong blips...

* A small remote controlled commuter jet filled with incendiaries/explosives -- a cruise missile, if you like -- is flown into the first WTC tower. That's the plane the first NBC eyewitness saw.

* The remote controlled "Pseudo Flight 175," decked out to look like a United airlines passenger jet, is sent aloft and flown by remote control -- without passengers -- and crashed into the second tower.

Why did Pseudo Flight 175 almost miss the second tower? Because the remote operators were used to smaller, more maneuverable craft, not a big stubborn passenger jet. The operators brought the jet in on a tight circle and almost blew it because those jets do hairpin turns like the Queen Mary. They brought it in too fast and too close to do the job right and just hit the corner of the tower.

* Then another remote controlled commuter jet filled with incendiaries/explosives -- a cruise missile if you like -- hits the Pentagon, in the name of Flight 77.

* Eyewitnesses are a dime a dozen. Trusted media whores "witness" the Pentagon hit and claim it was an American Airlines Boeing 757, Flight 77. Reporters lie better than lawyers.

* Meanwhile, the passengers from Flights 11, 175, and 77, now at the military airfield, are loaded onto Flight 93. If you've put some of your own agents aboard, they stay on the ground, of course.

* Flight is taken aloft.

* Flight 93 is shot down to destroy that human meat without questions. Easiest way to dispose of 15,000 lbs. of human flesh, and nobody gets a headline if they find a foot in their front garden. No mass graves will ever be discovered, either.

* The trail is further confused by issuing reports that Flight 77 was actually headed towards the White House but changed course.

* The trail is further confused by having the Washington Post wax lyrical about the flying skills of non-existent pilots on a non-existence plane (Flight 77).

* The trail is further confused with conflicting reports and artificial cat-fight issues, such as -- did Bush really see the first tower hit on TV while he was waiting to read the story about the pet goat...

So we know the Boeing that used to be Flight 93 was blown up. The other three original Boeings (Flights 11, 175, 77) still exist somewhere, unless they were cut up for scrap.

The passengers and crews of Flights 11, 175, 77, and 93 died in an airplane crash, just like the newspapers said. Only for most of them, it was the wrong crash. But that's as close to the truth as the news media likes to get anyway, so it works.

WHY DO IT THAT WAY?

So there you have it. Not four planes. More than four planes. There were the four original Boeing passenger jets that took off from the East Coast airports, the remote controlled Pseudo Flight 175 Boeing, and two small remote controlled jets or cruise missiles. Figure in a couple of extra planes to confuse the flight paths of the original passenger jets.

The four original Boeings had conventional controls. The look-alike Boeing and the two small jets were drones, rigged with remote control. You called it Global Hawk, and that's good enough. The mimic planes could have been piloted or remote controlled.

Why not just install remote control in four passenger jets like you described in NO SUICIDE PILOTS? Here's why: You might get remote control gear installed on a passenger jet so pretty the pilot would not notice, but that would be more work, more time, and more people. Then you would have to control your special plane through maintenance dispatch and try to get it lined up for that day, that time, that flight. Then you would have to multiply those efforts by four. There would be too many chances of things going wrong. Plane substitution would be much simpler. You'd just need the NORAD insiders, the personnel at the military airfield, and maybe an agent or two inside the FAA air traffic control system to make sure things go smooth. That should not be too difficult because NORAD has sent lots of its people over to the FAA to work on the FAA radars.

Some people have suggested the original passenger planes were used with the flight computers hacked and loaded with the collision coordinates for the targets. Maybe the job could have been done that way, but it was not. You know for sure it was not because flight computers do not fly planes the way those were flown. A flight computer is given a set of GPS points (geographic coordinates) to follow, and the computer charts the path between them, correcting for cross-winds and other errors. The flight computer flies smooth and gentle, the way passengers like it, without jerky corrections.

You know Flight 175 was not on that system when it hit the south tower because it came in fast (they say) in a tight hooking circle that almost missed the tower. An autopilot wouldn't make that mistake. The crash of flight 175 was not a preporgrammed flight computer finding the optimum path. What you see there in the path of 175 is a real-time controller fighting the physics of flight - and almost losing it.

I've seen another lame attempt to explain away what happened: Supposedly AWACS (airborne military communications) hit the planes with EMF (radio blast) and knocked out their manual electronics, then took over the 9-11 planes by remote and made them crash. That's a pipe dream. Anything that knocked out the electronics from a distance would turn a plane into a flying scrap heap. Those plane are completely dependent on electronics, and no remote beam could pick and choose which circuits to destroy and which to leave intact.

OTHER DETAILS

* Pentagon Security Photos: On March 7 CNN released four photographs taken by Pentagon security camera on September 11, 2001. The Washington Post says: "The first photo shows a small, blurry, white object near the upper right corner -- possibly the plane just a few feet about the ground," but admits "the hijacked American Airlines plane is not clearly visible."

Yeah, right, you can believe that the American Airlines plane is not visible.

* Fireman's (Naudet) Video of First Crash. The NBC eyewitness said the plane that flew into the North tower was small. This is corroborated by the fireman's video taken on September 11:

In that clip, the camera shows a fireman with other workers casually discussing some street work. The fireman looks up over his left shoulder, then behind him, as though he is following a sound. The camera follows his gaze, finds nothing at the original location, then quickly moves to a shot of the WTC, visible through another corridor in the surrounding buildings.

Why does the cameraman focus on the WTC? I can only guess he heard the impact of the plane. The camera does not show the plane in the air prior to impact, so I assume it has already crashed.

In the first frames we see a puff of smoke from the impact site that grows into a cloud and erupts into flame. After a few seconds, the flame dies down and the smoke dissipates. At that moment, the camera shows the huge S-shaped gash in the side of WTC North.

If the wings of a large jet made that gash, the gash should not be S-shaped. The gash should be a straight line like the wings of the jet. But more important: if the impact of the jet made the gash, the gash should appear at the moment of impact when the camera is first drawn to the building. Instead, it appears AFTER the smoke and flame.

The Hijackers: I have read reports that some of the alleged hijackers are actually still alive. This suggests the hijacker scenario and the resultant mid-air telephone calls to the relatives is pure bull. But I can't verify the alleged hijackers are still alive, so let's move on.

It would be easy for the 9-11 planners to collect the names of people with Muslim-sounding names who were taking flying lessons around the country. Just before 9-11 happens, they are disappeared. Then mid-air phone calls are created, reporting hijackers who were never aboard the planes. That would work.

As you and many people have noticed, the Muslim names don't appear on the passenger lists of the four flights. The hijackers names don't even appear on the list of passengers released by United on September 12 -- the list of passengers on Flights 175 and 93.

Sure it was careless not to put the Arab names on the passenger lists, but nobody's perfect.

Just to show you how scripted the Flight 93 hijacking thing was, think about the alleged phone calls from the passengers on Flight 93 to their next of kin in the moments before the crash. Supposedly, they learned of the attacks on the Pentagon and the WTC with their handy cell phones, and they figured out their own plane was hijacked for a similar purpose. So they decided to be heroes and take the plane away from the hijackers.

According to the Dallas Morning News : "The fourth time Thomas Burnett Jr. phoned his wife, Deena, he acknowledged up front: 'I know we're going to die. There's three of us who are going to do something about it.'"

Heroic, wasn't it? And not a dry hanky in the house. The heroes of modern America. A high school basketball star, a college rugby player, a forest ranger, a woman police officer ...

But why did it have to be suicide heroism? "They knew their deaths were inevitable, according to some family members with whom they spoke on the phone, and they didn't want thousands more to die with them." It makes a better story, of course: "Suicide Heroes Defeat Suicide Hijackers."

Why did they have to die? The crew was still alive and "herded at knife point to the back of the plane, where the passengers were being held," according to the same report. They weren't dead. If the passengers got control from the hijackers, couldn't the crew fly the plane? Why didn't those brave heroes say things like, "There's a chance we might save this boat"? But they said, "I know we're going to die."

Obviously, this script was concocted in midnight bull sessions like they had in Dustin Hoffman's mansion in "Wag the Dog". And the American public has been trained on weak plots for decades on prime time TV, so they don't WANT to think their way out of a wet paper bag. It spoils the show.

Only the writers and producers of Operation 911 knew that the passengers of Flight 93 had to die. But the temptation was too much, so they put it in the passenger dialog, too. And that's how you know the cell phone calls are just theater, not fact.

By the way, if I was planning this operation, I'd put some fictitious names on the passenger list, so when the flight went down, the media could interview fake relatives. Like that Operation Northwoods plan in which a fake Cuban jet would shoot down a fake American passenger jet. Whoever planned that must have planned to use fake grieving relatives, too.

And then of course I've heard they can do marvelous things with voice simulation. How about that fellow who called his mother from Flight 93 and said "Mom, this is Mark Bingham." That has all the truth of a plaster fish trophy. That one guy, Todd Beamer, with the pregnant wife -- she didn't talk to him directly, she just got a message from the answering service.

"The Final Moments of Flight 93," September 22, 2001, by Karen Breslau (NEWSWEEK WEB EXCLUSIVE)

All that was needed to make 911 (and the next one) happen was ambition, chutzpah, "a few good men," and a nation that is willing was be deceived.

The problem with most people who try to understand events like this, is that they're not trained killers. When you come to wiping out the whoever, you shrink back. That's normal. That is one of the things you have to train out of a soldier.

But when a soldier plans something like this, he doesn't flinch at the killing. He just takes that into the plans like one more or one less egg in the omelet. If he has to kill the enemy or Americans or even himself, it doesn't matter because sometimes he has to do that to win. He's trained that way.

The only thing that matters is the Objective. Whatever a soldier has to do to win the Objective, that is what he has to do. All of this false piety about suicide bombers is nuts. Well trained Americans would do that if you ordered them to. If they didn't, they weren't well trained.

So you have to kill a hundred, a thousand, or five thousand civilians, you just do it in the best way that will help the Objective.

Snake' that's not bad at all. Thanks for taking the time to write a well thought out, coherrant argument on the subject.

The low passenger numbers on each flight being hearded on to flight 77 is intriguing, and the idea it was shot down by a military jet has been gaining more and more attention in the last few years.

One thing you mentioned about the pentagon was a 70' hole? Not nit picking, but the initial hole was only about 18' across, before the section collapsed was it not? That ties in with the smaller aircraft idea too.

Just on that subject. I have seen pictures of Tomahawk style missiles that have been photoshopped with airline livery, and when placed in an urban environment, you would be hard pressed to pick 'at a glance' what it is. The eyes, and the brain tend to go with the simplest and most frequently seen and understood explanation. Mix in a bit of 'he said, she said' and plaster it all over the screens, and voila!! - you have the official storyline.

I found a thread on another site once started by a person who claimed to be on a fifth aircraft, and this person witnessed all the others passengers from the other flights being 'processed' and coralled in to two groups.

The one good thing that seems to be starting to occur is that this stick we are all prodding in to the 911 event seems to be getting a bit more pointy.

Hi John, I Have Been Watching Your Work For Many Years, Your Doing A Great Job Bringing The Issues To Peoples Notice. I Have a question for you, do you think the aurora project is real? and do you think it will ever be made public? also the flying triangles people see, what do you think they are? theres or ours?

For example, is he still claiming that all five million people (lowest estimate) massacred in the 2nd Congo war went for a check up on the moon only to be slaughtered shortly after in their short miserable lives for a mineral that the brain dead are unable to name but which every mobile phone needs?

John Lear talks a good game on integrity but that can be seen as a hollow claim simply by the searching questions he ignores time and again here. Integrity is about moral consistency. You're not going to get that here.

..when did you lose contact with reality?..is there a date when all you knew, learned,experienced was tossed aside?..I know a specific date might be hard, so a time area..the moon landing,hehehe...9-11?. Kennedy in Dallas ?...the first anal fixation by Aliens?...

"With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things." William Wordsworth

And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe—the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.

"Two systems are before the world.... One looks to pauperism, ignorance, depopulation, and barbarism; the other to increasing wealth, comfort, intelligence, combination of action, and civilization. One looks towards universal war; the other towards universal peace. One is the English system; the other ... the American system, for ... elevating while equalizing the condition of man throughout the world."